Escaped Again

I know that burglar bars aren't really "in style" anymore. I also know that they are supposed to keep the bad guys "out" of the house. My problem is keeping my bad guy "in" it.
I don't have the stupid habit of locking the door behind me, I don't, I should, I will now.
Saturday morning 7 AM, the house is still, The Office reruns are running on the television, my husband is sitting on the sofa in a daze waiting for the coffee. I know us woman don't know this, but apparently a man can sit on the sofa and the coffee magically makes itself, what he doesn't know is that I do have to rinse the pot, I do have to fill it, the coffee grains, filter, all that shit. Tinkerbell doesn't fly around any make stuff happen with a wand, it's my wifely duty. So he sits and waits.
I put the gears in motion and wait for the caffeinated drink to erupt from the machine. As I wait, I go outside to get the paper. Walk back into the house, set the paper on the coffee table, and grab the coffee. In his cup goes straight whole milk, the half and half is for she-who-preps-the-coffee, not for he-who-waits. I am not a morning person, and in my mind I think to myself, "That'll teach 'em."
The bread-winner gets all gussied up for work and by this time Mike D has taken over the remote. He is also a grumpy goose. The money maker walks out the side door and I sit with Mike watching annoying characters dance around, Mike smiles and laughs, all is well.
My laundry hamper has reached mountain proportions, we are talking overlapping the hamper limit, flowing over the back, and now clothes is being stuffed between the towels on my towel rack, because apparently the laundry also does it's fucking self. I hate housework, and laundry more.
I walk outside with the load in my arms smelling like an armpit from the trenches of a jungle and I stuff it into the machine, like teenagers stuff their bras and tighty whiteys (well they do) I pour the liquid and turn around to go back in, I notice weeds everywhere, again. I bend over and pull one weed, pull another, Mike D walks out to me.
I pick him up and go inside, prep his bottle and sit him on the man-sofa. I go back outside to my weeding.
After about 15 minutes I go in to check on the boys and get a drink, as I walk up the stairs to the kitchen, I find the front door wide open. I scream "Michael" in one breath. Frantically I run outside, no shoes, no bra, no mind, just pajamas. I go up to the edge of the porch and scream again, looking to the side of the house, by the garbage canister, nothing.
I run into the house and check all the rooms, closets, under the covers, I have been through this before. "Diego, I can't find Michael, help me look, check all the rooms again, NOW!"
I run outside to the middle of the street, looking both ways, the road seems to go on forever.
Two young men doing lawn work a couple of houses down come out from the back, they see me running aimlessly, my hair in my hands, almost like I could think better by yanking at the strands. They point across the street, and there sitting on the porch chair is Michael.
I run up to the house (he has actually chosen to settle himself into the meth house from the block, where parties never end, music never dies, drugs run wild and liquor runs deep, yes the house I want to visit, he beat me to it) in his hand is a Styrofoam cup, I grab it, empty. I smell it, nothing, he probably drank a cigarette like Snooki from Jersey Shore, the cup has no hints of alcohol, or even soda. I knock on the door, waiting for a hangover zombie to open the door and lead me to the dark side. No one answered. I walked out to the young men and thanked them.
They told me he was playing with the cups and they noticed him but didn't know where he came from, they noticed him alone and watched him.
The only thing he didn't do was light up the cigarettes sitting in front of him or roll up a joint, but give him time. I walked into the house, my face streaked with tears or sweat, I can't tell.
The weeds have lost their priority, for all I care the house could be covered by vines and uprooted by the massive oak tree out front, turning it into a tree house.
I am breathing deeply, the anxiety or panic attack, pick your word, comes tearing down my walls, I take a Xanax and set the tv back on for him, I glide the sofa, yes the big sofa people sit in to guard the door, now I am boarded up and he can't get out, he plays with the knobs of the window and leads me to believe, he just may climb out of there, I get the laptop, forget the laundry and for the next 6 hours watch over him like a hawk.
Alot of things could have happened, but this is how my weekend started. I haven't been able to blog or do much, guilt consumed my every thought, my every movement. I have learned to unhitch the doorknob, ghetto style, assuring that he cant get out. If God forbid a fire breaks out, the kids will just have to break a window. Which they did in their room, the only thing holding it together is tint put in place by the previous demented owner of this hell hole. Can you believe they actually tinted the windows purple. G-H-E-T-T-O fabulous, or Cubaniche style, one or the other, same difference.
Either way, my life is changing leaps and bounds with this hellion, and the only thing I can control is....ok so I have no control of much, but it gives me lots to blog about, it's been a hell of a weekend my friends. More to come.